


Shelter from the Storm

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Artist Castiel, Bottom Dean, M/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 12:26:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5743822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Pre-series AU:</i> Dean is young and hunting on his own – with Sam off at Stanford and his father still chasing after Mary’s killer, it’s his job to take on the smaller cases. Ghosts, haunted woods, missing kids. He ends up in a small town on a case exactly like that, except he doesn’t find a ghost this time. Entering the supposedly haunted forest, Dean trips and falls by the river; meets Castiel and falls again, helplessly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shelter from the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> *please note that while this fic is rated Mature, one of the art pieces embedded in the fic is slightly nsfw and there _is_ some nsfw text as well, just not in the 100%-explicit realm.
> 
>  
> 
> Written for the SPN Reverse Bang.
> 
> Check out the art masterpost with all the seriously beautiful art for this story [HERE ON LJ](http://rhapsodean.livejournal.com/2045.html) | [HERE ON TUMBLR](http://rhapsodean.tumblr.com/post/137548149203/shelter-from-the-storm-art-masterpost-view-on-lj)
> 
> Ooookay [cracks knuckles] I've got things to say.
> 
> Obviously, I need to thank [Adele](http://rhapsodean.tumblr.com), the fabulous artist I claimed back in, what, November? It's been an incredible journey. This may be just me but I feel like we really clicked, and getting to know you and getting to talk to you has been quite amazing. This was my third time participating in this challenge but you made it feel so, so special. Thank you so much for letting me write for your art, and thank you for drawing all the extra stuff. It's not even exaggerating when I say that I LOVE YOU. ♥
> 
> And, of course, thank you to Hayley, beta & friend & hand-holder extraordinaire. <3

The first thing that Dean sees upon waking up is a tall vase of flowers, positioned on the nightstand. It smells as if he woke up in a grassy meadow, and even when he buries his nose in the pillow, there’s a flowery scent.

Then it occurs to him that there are never flowers on motel nightstands, and the bed sheets usually smell like crap.

Dean blinks and heaves himself up on his elbows, his body heavy and ribs aching. 

This is not a motel room. Definitely not the one he checked into two days ago.

The room is lit up with sunshine, which pours in through the big windows in a way that seems almost rude: no room should look this alive, filled to the brim with something that’s so obviously _outside_. Dean’s eyes slide across the wallpapers covering the walls, and the bed sheets, strikingly white in comparison to his tanned skin and bruised arm. 

Not a motel room at all, then; it looks like a cabin, wooden and old. Dean can decipher tree branches in his the view out of the window, looking out from his place on the bed.

He is very, very naked. That’s the next thing he realizes. By now, he’s so shocked and uncomfortable, it doesn’t even occur to him to panic over the fact that someone had to _undress him_. All three ridiculous layers of clothing. In some stranger’s hands.

Closing his eyes, Dean flops back down and focuses on remembering, because there must be something in his brain that would help him sort this out. A strange house, and his nakedness – not that it hasn’t happened before, but Dean doesn’t recall drinking this time, nor does he remember a pretty girl to accompany him.

The pitch-black void in his head soon fills up. He connects the dots like an obedient child as they come to him.

There are things that he remembers clearly. A conversation with John about a haunted forest, a stubborn argument that Dean goes to deal with it after he hears that there’s a boy missing, and that boy was someone else’s younger brother. Getting a room at the sketchy local motel, the atrocious faded-yellow walls. Interviews, missing Sam, wanting to call him despite knowing that he’s off at Stanford, busy with parties, with life. 

Then the unclear things, the smudgy things, like something written down on his arm with a sharpie before a rough night. The decision to go out and see the forest, not calling anyone -- not Sam, and definitely not his father. Parking the Impala in a discreet spot and going in. Branches, old, crumpled rotten leaves, the earth smelling of summer rain. Losing the path and his balance. 

And then, tripping. And falling. Hazy memories of water tinkling in his ears and hot blood running down his calf; his pant leg soaked. And then the pitch-black void.

Dean is cautious and careful about getting out of the bed. His clothes are nowhere to be seen but there is a worn, faded-blue shirt and sweatpants resting in the armchair by the window in a neat pile. When he puts them on, they have the same clean bed sheets scent to them.

His ribs go on aching with every step; his fall doesn’t seem to ease the pain. His chest feels like a blossoming bruise and so do his arms. He’s lucky he didn’t hit his head.

The house itself looks like something out of an apocalypse movie. It’s seemingly empty but lived-in enough to invoke the feeling that whoever lived here must have left in a hurry.

Dean takes care so as not to move anything, the way he would treat a crime scene. Finding himself in a cabin in the middle of the (supposedly) haunted forest sets him on edge. So does the idea of someone unknown taking care of him. He remembers _Misery_. He remembers a dozen different novels where the stranger really wishes you harm.

He steps, barefoot, through the rooms and inspects them from his bystander point of view. There are sky-blue curtains, tiles with a fruit pattern in the kitchen, a big brown couch in the living room. But it’s empty.

The backdoor creaks when he tries to open it, but it obeys. The sound is stabbingly loud, though, and if there’s something, someone out there, it must have alerted them. Oh well.

There’s no fence, for starters. Dean steps out onto the small patio and looks out and he can’t see where the property ends and the lines of trees begin. He can’t decide if it feels lovely or terrifying.

Hopping down the four steps from the patio, his feet hit the grass. It must be early-ish in the morning; it’s wet with dew and cold, even despite the warm morning summer sun. Low-key worried he might step on a bug or something sharp with his bare feet, Dean circles the house.

One side and there’s the tinkling of the river, another one with a dark-brown front door and another line of steps, the third side and Dean would almost let the man crouched between two huge rose bushes go unnoticed. 

Dean is taken aback when he finally notices him; quite possibly the stranger that handled Dean’s clothes, washed the blood off his leg, eased a pack of ice against his hurt ribs.

For a second, for a very still second, all Dean can hear are birds chirping their lungs away and the distinct _snap-snap-snap_ of scissors. 

“Uh,” he says, but his voice seems to vanish before it even leaves his mouth, stopped by the block in his throat. He clears it and tries again. “Hey there.”

The man’s head snaps up and after a second of uncertainty, it spreads in a smile. It’s genuine and full of teeth and the sun rests against the man’s dark hair like a halo His t-shirt is stained with dirt and he’s wearing terrible yellow gardening gloves with big flowers, and there’s nothing but kindness in the crinkles around his eyes. 

“Hey, you’re awake,” the man says through his smile. Holding himself up on the wooden handle of his shovel, he gets up, dusting his dirty pants with those equally dirty gloves. He steps around the rose bushes and reaches out. “I’m Castiel.”

That’s a weird ass name, and Dean has to bite his tongue not to say as much. He looks down at the offered hand instead and considers taking it, gloved and all, but then decides against it. “Yeah, I’m Dean.”

“Oh, sorry,” Castiel mumbles and laughs. It’s a nervous laugh, uncoordinated with his smile, and he quickly takes off the dirty glove, stretching out his arm once more.

Dean has to take it – one quick shake and he pulls back, feeling uncomfortable still; embarrassed to be in this stranger’s clothes, to have been seen by him. It sets him apart, that little fact. He’d feel better if Castiel was a girl. 

“Thanks for not murdering me in my sleep, I guess,” Dean squeezes out, watching as Castiel takes off the other glove as well and looks up at Dean, squinting in the sun.

“No problem. You seemed pretty dead-set on getting yourself killed -- I didn’t want to add to it.”

Dean laughs despite himself. He feels stupidly young; Castiel is obviously a few years older, compared to Dean’s fresh twenties, and Dean is used to taking care of someone, rather than being taken care of. Even though it’s been a year since Sam left for Stanford, this is still unknown territory. He doesn’t know how to thank, how to act, what to say, and whether he should treat this man with respect, like he does with John. Then again, John is a completely different chapter

“So, did you…” Dean motions with his hand, dumbly.

“See what happened? Yes. I thought you broke your neck for sure,” Castiel answers easily, running his hand through his hair, dirtying it up. “You tripped by the river. There’s this cliff-ish thing that you can’t see coming when you’re approaching from the woods, I’m not really that surprised it got the best of you. It was getting dark, too, you couldn’t have seen a thing.”

“Yeah,” Dean mumbles, looking down as he feels his cheeks heat up slightly. “Probably would have died if you weren’t there, huh?”

“It’s possible,” Castiel agrees but it’s sheepish, as if he doesn’t want to take credit for pretty much saving Dean’s ass.

“Thanks again, man.”

“No problem, as I said,” Castiel nods, then motions towards the house. “Interested in breakfast? Or some painkillers, if you need any?”

“No, I’m – I’ve got to get going. Thanks, though, seriously.”

“Ugh, stop thanking me. It’s no big deal. You’d be surprised how many people I have to save on a daily basis.”

“Really?”

“Well, you’re the first one, but I’m sure it will happen again at some point. I’ll probably be able to open up a business one day.”

“Oh. Oh, shit, yeah – I should pay you back. I should have thought of that. Sorry, man. Once I get my clothes back, I’ll –”

“I was _joking_ ,” Castiel cuts him off, almost looking a little. “I don’t want you to pay me back, Dean. That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” Dean asks, as if dumbstruck. This conversation feels surreal to him; it was surreal the moment he woke up, and it’s been getting worse. Castiel seems to be so easy-going, so friendly, and combined with his genuinely kind face, with his… well, pretty eyes, with his pretty everything – Dean doesn’t know what to do here. Once again, it’d be easier with a girl. Dean has a hard time wrapping his head around the fact that he might want to treat Castiel the same way, not to mention actually _doing_ it.

“Yes,” Castiel confirms. “Come on, I washed your clothes but they should be dry by now. And I’m getting you those painkillers – I bet your ribs are killing you.”

 _I’ve had worse_ , Dean wants to say. This doesn’t even come close to the pain he felt when that ghost in Sioux Falls slammed him against the chapel’s wall; nothing compared to when he lost his balance in that fight with that one ghoul and pretty much got himself a mild concussion. Also, his first hangover. Nothing is ever worse than that. 

“Thanks,” is all he says, and even that is bashful. 

He lets Castiel lead them both back into the house (which feels even more fairytale-y with Castiel moving around in it, room to room, smiles and laughs and all). Before he knows it, he’s back in his old clothes (except they smell like new) and he gets a quick pat on the back before he leaves.

It’s somehow a very unsettling thought, to think that he’ll never set foot in this cabin anymore, that he’ll never see Castiel again. It bothers him, yet he walks away.

Finding his car on the first try, that’s definitely a silver lining. Castiel had asked him multiple times if he needed a guide to get back, but Dean was stubborn about finding the way on his own, and thank God it worked.

It’s still been a killer walk: by the time he finally slides in behind the wheel, his ribs are on fire and all he wants to do is have a beer and lie down for at least an hour-long nap.

The roads are empty on his way back into town and he gets to his motel room fairly quickly.

Closing the door behind him, he is almost disappointed to not see the green wallpaper, clean sheets and wooden floors of Castiel’s cabin. Everything is oddly dark and seems rusty, and when he sinks into the armchair the cushions feel old and worn to his touch. 

As much as he just wants to close his eyes and take a break, he groans and fishes out his beat up notepad instead. Flipping the pages, he stops on the one where he’s made some notes on this case. They are very… well, un-Sam-like.

• _Jimmy Nelson, 16, missing, friends Joshua and Kerry, brother Tom_  
• Gone missing three days before that: Gracie Malone  
• ‘haunted forest’  
• ‘quick, dark creature’

And that’s pretty much all he’s got. There are, of course, other things he hasn’t written down: like the fact that Jimmy’s friends couldn’t agree on what took Jimmy, whether it killed him or not, or that Gracie was all alone when she went missing. Her parents thought she was with the boyfriend that they didn’t want her to see: apparently she did go out to meet him, but he never showed. Figures why the parents disliked him. It all adds up to nothing, though, when he really thinks about it. The boy’s older brother, Tom, is a dead end as well: he doesn’t seem to care much that a family member’s gone missing. Dean found him in a comic store the day he arrived and he actually seemed thrilled to ‘finally have the room to himself, dude’.

Throwing the notepad carelessly onto the old round table, Dean lets his head fall back against the armchair’s cushion, ignoring how it’s probably dusty as all hell. 

He needs to hit the library. Needs to talk to the missing kids’ parents again. Needs to find out if there’s anything else that’s happened in the woods. 

So far, the clues, if he can call his info that, seem to point towards a classic ghost case. Easy as pie. He should be able to take care of that on his own but God, he just wants to be lazy. Doesn’t want to go to the library at all, just, he wants to rest. Fuck.

Easy as pie.

That’s exactly what he’ll hold on to. _Pie_. It’s a nice prospect but he still groans, because no Sam around means he’s going to have to get it himself. 

Dean doesn’t want store-bought pie (when does he ever) so he ends up at the local diner later that afternoon, which… Okay, let’s be honest here. It looks exactly like every other small-town diner he’s ever been to. It’s called _Carol’s_ and the owner (Carol) looks like every other diner owner. To Dean, at least. He’s sure there’s something special about, like there is about everyone, but he can’t see it.

It’s not that obvious, that special something, as it was with Castiel. Dean saw Castiel and immediately recognized that it would be difficult to find something _ordinary_ about him. Which probably explains why he’s thinking about him again.

The guy with the flowery gardening gloves. _Fuck me_.

Dean has zero thoughts concerning the case he’s working, and looking at the display of various pies and other (definitely less) delicious stuff, he’s thinking about Castiel, and the cabin, and the way the sun shone. There are no libraries or interviews or missing kids running around his head. Pretty selfish, but that’s nothing new.

With a sigh, he comes to a conclusion he probably should have expected. He definitely needs to say thank you to the guy: his hasty exit and apology for bothering him are honestly embarrassing.

So he does buy pie, but he doesn’t drive back to the motel. He heads for the cabin instead.

This time, he decides to just drive all the way; after all, he’s not off to explore the woods and he did see a nice gravel driveway leading up to the old house. He _almost_ gets lost on his way there, but hey, the key word is _almost_. It’s just a matter of one wrong turn and a consequential dead-end, but he backtracks and figures himself out.

By the time he gets to the cabin and kills the engine, the late-afternoon dark has settled over the country, making it all seem much more malicious and scary. 

_I should be doing like ten different things right now_ , Dean tells himself, clutching the wrapped-up pie on a plate in his lap, debating whether he should go out and deliver it or not. 

One of the rooms in the far corner of the house is lit up, casting mild yellow lines of light out and onto the side of the house. Castiel is clearly busy with something, and Dean is making too big a deal out of this. _Clearly_. One does not approach someone one likes easily, though. 

Which, that alone pretty much freaks Dean out. He’s never felt like this before (that’s a lie and he knows it but it’s better not to think about those times; what’s the point in remembering pretty boy faces that he was always scared to look at because what if they would _see_ and _know_ ) and it’s setting him apart. He feels dumb, really.

Kind of like a princess. Trying to say thanks to his knight in shining armor. Jesus Christ. He feels like a schoolboy. A schoolboy who totally, totally likes Castiel. The other kids, also schoolboys, are definitely laughing at Dean in his head. This is ridiculous. 

But he _does_ want to say thank you. It’s appropriate, really, all things considered.

On impulse, before he can change his mind all over again, Dean opens the door of the Impala and cringes when it creaks, the sound loud out here in the middle of nowhere. He quickly gets out and slams the door close in case he gets the urge to run and jump back in. He refuses to be a coward about this.

 _He’s just a guy who happened to save me_ , Dean reminds himself, walking up to the cabin’s front door. He still needs to count to five before he can knock (quite swiftly and fiercely), but he manages.

There’s a bang and a muffled curse before the door opens, and it’s a sight Dean wasn’t expecting but definitely won’t complain about.

Castiel looks about as cheerful as he did this morning when Dean caught him by the rose bushes, except this time, there’s something else to notice: his clothes are a mess and so is his hair. It’s all covered in paint, somehow, and there’s an especially long blue strike starting at his neck and disappearing down his t-shirt.

“Oh, hello again, Dean!” he says and Dean would accuse him of fake enthusiasm, except it sounds so genuine. 

“Hi,” he mumbles and finally tears his gaze away, however difficult that may be. Instead, he looks at the pie in his hands, nods towards it. “I uh, wanted to say thanks again, and so I thought I’d – I bought you some pie.” 

Without another word, he holds out the plate, practically forcing it into Castiel’s hands. He stares at their hands throughout the exchange; Castiel’s long fingers, smooth skin stained with paint.

“That’s really nice,” Castiel says, the paper covering the food rustling slightly. “Thank you.”

“It’s no problem,” Dean manages to say as he tries to will the blush blooming on his cheeks to go away. They exchange a quick smile and Dean turns to leave – not sure whether he’s not just trying to escape the situation. “Thanks again,” he says practically over his shoulder.

“Hey, wait,” Castiel stops him mid-step and Dean snaps back around within a second. “There’s no way I can eat all of this alone.”

“Well,” Dean muses, even laughs a little, “ _technically_ , you can –”

“How about we share it?” Castiel cuts him off, and it’s very obvious that he’s aware he could eat it all by himself – it seems that he doesn’t want to, though. 

“You sure?”

“Absolutely!” Castiel exclaims and opens the door wider so Dean can step in. “Here, take this – I’ll just take a quick shower and I’ll be right out. You remember where the kitchen is?”

With the pie back in his hands, Dean reluctantly enters the hallway and nods. “Yeah, I think so,” he replies, doing all he can to push away the thought of Castiel naked, under a steady stream of hot water, his skin wet and warm – shit, he does all he can to push that thought out of his mind. It’s a lot harder than it seems. Pun half-intended.

Castiel smiles in response and disappears in the presumed direction of the bathroom, while Dean hesitantly closes the door behind him and steps further into the house.

Despite the fact that it’s seemingly large, the cabin is very easy to navigate and feels cozy. Dean finds the kitchen without trouble and even though there are multiple drawers and shelves, he finds a knife and two plates, too.

He sits down at the kitchen table but the sound of the shower running is still audible and distracting, so he gathers all the necessities and makes his way out onto the patio. 

Both the chairs and the table outside are made out of rattan and the creak when Dean sits down is loud and distinctive. 

Castiel’s quick shower actually takes him about twenty minutes, but Dean can’t complain: it’s quiet out here, unless you count the breeze and cicadas, and very calm. And he enjoys that; he hasn’t experienced calmness like this in a very long time, and for some reason, it gives him peace.

By the time Castiel comes out, looking and smelling fresh, like grass in a summer morning, Dean feels relaxed. He has forgotten about the case altogether.

“Ah, here you are. I was worried you changed your mind and ran away with the pie when I didn’t find you inside,” Castiel comments as he slumps down into the rattan chair next to Dean’s. 

Dean hands him a plate with a big slice of pie, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I would never.”

He waits and watches as Castiel picks up his slice and takes a bite, then watches his mouth closing around it. He feels like he’s under some odd spell, just watching Castiel’s jaws working.

Castiel hums, pleased. “This is Carol’s, isn’t it?” he asks, his mouth still half-full.

“Yeah, how’d you know?” Dean inquires as he bites into his own piece, and _Jesus Christ_ , that is freaking delicious. Easily the best damn pie he’s had in months and it’s not even apple-flavored. It’s still heaven in his mouth.

“Well, living here, I kind of know everyone in town. It’s a small place, so. It’s easy, really.” 

“Watcha doin’ out here anyway?” Dean asks, mouth full of his third bite of the pie.

Castiel – Jesus, he licks at his fingers and Dean’s pretty much done – shrugs. “It’s easier to paint out here.”

“You an artist or something?”

“Yeah. And don’t give me that look,” Castiel warns him before Dean can pull a face – which was kind of what he was about to do. 

Dean’s never been quite fond of artists – that life has always seemed so easy to him, even though he knows that it’s not actually like that. Combine his life and what he knows about what hides in the dark, though, and you’ll get why he’d be skeptical about artists who can just go live somewhere and do their thing. He’s never been able to do that and the knowledge tastes bitter.

“Sorry,” Dean mumbles, his tongue running over his teeth for remnants of the pie as he puts the plate back down on the rattan table.

“If you want some more, you should have some,” Castiel says, but Dean shakes his head no. “Anyway, yes. I decided to camp out here during the summer this year to work on what was on my mind and – that’s pretty much it.”

“Are you like a big artist or something? Sorry, I’m not really into art and –”

“It’s fine.” Castiel waves his hand and gets himself another slice. It’s completely dark now, but there’s light coming out from the house and shining on their faces, and Castiel’s especially looks lovely in this lighting. “I’ve had a few exhibitions and I made enough money to be able to hole up here, but I’m not _big_.”

Dean, restless, not knowing what to do with his hands, scrambles desperately for another question. “So, what are you working on right now?” he asks, finally (not that it would really tell him anything).

Castiel smiles over his second slice of pie. “That’s a secret,” he says, vaguely mysterious. “What are _you_ doing in a place like this?”

“ _That’s_ a secret,” Dean deadpans but he knows it’s not much of an answer, so he adds, “It’s just a business trip. I’ll be out in a few days.”

“A business trip to the woods?” Castiel asks, his eyebrow raised.

“Yeah, that, I was just –” Dean looks away, stares right towards those woods. “Just wanted to take a walk alone, and it kind of went downhill.”

“Quite literally,” Castiel confirms and Dean’s ribs ache all over again with the memory of his fall. “I take it you’re staying at the motel?”

“How did you know?”

“Once again, small town. There’s not a lot of places to go. That motel is a real hellhole, though.”

Dean snorts. “It sure is, man. Haven’t seen a dump like that in a while.”

“Okay, well…” Castiel trails off, putting away the half-eaten slice away next to Dean’s empty plate. “Tell me if I’m being too forward, okay? I have a spare room that I don’t use and it definitely smells better than that motel room. You can stay here, unless it’s more convenient for you to be right in town.”

Dean blinks, then blinks again. Somehow, he has trouble processing this – not in a bad way, though. Castiel probably _is_ being way too forward, it’s not like you can just ask strangers if they want to stay for a few days. It’s not like Dean can say yes to something like that. It’s not like he’s supposed to trust anyone on his hunts, it’s not like –

“I dunno if I can accept that,” Dean squeezes out after all, his eyes tearing away from Castiel’s face once again. “I probably shouldn’t. The room I have is already paid for, and –”

And there’s no other argument. That’s all Dean’s got. It’s not much; definitely not compared to how much he wants to say yes, even though finding the reason for that is pretty much impossible. Dean doesn’t know why or how, but he feels tied to this place, and he would give anything to wake up in those nice sheets again. With Castiel.

Wait, _what_?

“Oh, I wouldn’t make you pay for the spare room!” Castiel says quickly. “Honestly, I just thought you might prefer it to the motel.”

“It’s just that you don’t really – well, we’re practically strangers. You hardly know me.”

“Listen, you brought me Carol’s pie as a thank you,” Castiel agrees, “We’re practically best friends. Besides, my offer is selfish.”

“Is it?”

“Definitely. It gets kind of lonely out here, and it’s not like I make the trip into town every other day. It would be nice to have someone to say good morning to, if only for a few days.”

“I thought that’s why you were here, for the solitude? So you can work on your art?”

“Well – yes and no. The quiet and all is still better than an apartment in a busy city. But it does get to my head sometimes, if you know what I mean.”

Dean thinks back to all those days on the road – nothing but asphalt and gravel stretching in front of him for miles, the only gas station in sight run-down and abandoned. The way from one state to the next can seem like the end of the world, and the only voice is the voice in his head. Dean’s in that place – he’s been there ever since Sam left and he and Dad both started hunting on their own. It’s not like he could be mad at Sam for wanting to get out, god, Dean wishes he could do that, but it does get lonely. A car is a home is a prison is a cage. It would be good to escape it.

“Yeah, I guess,” Dean shrugs in the end and finally looks back at Castiel. His face looks like a star with the light pouring out from inside. “Are you sure you wouldn’t mind? It’ll really be only a coupla days.”

“I’m sure. Do we have a deal, then?”

Dean’s thoughts are already running at full speed – thinking about what the house, what Castiel would look like in the morning, in the night, what it would be like to exist side by side with someone else again. He misses that, god, he misses it a lot. To just _be_ , with someone. It doesn’t matter that it’ll only be a coupla days.

“Yeah,” he agrees, letting a smile finally spread across his face. “Thanks for the offer, man. I really appreciate it. You keep saving my life, I’m gonna have to buy everything Carol ever bakes.”

Castiel’s own smile seems relieved and happy when he nods. “You’d better.” 

It’s quite the experience to not wake up in the backseat of the Impala or a creaky motel bed for two mornings in a row. Not that Dean hates the car – and he doesn’t really hate the motel beds, either – but this is nice. This is _exceptional_. Exceptionally nice. 

It takes a lot to drag his ass out of that sweet-smelling bed (he’s slept in the same room he woke up in the day before, and the sheets still smell like flowers and spring), but he manages it anyway. And he’s happy for it – getting to the kitchen reveals that there’s _breakfast_ waiting for him on the table, and he can’t escape it this time. Castiel won’t let him.

“Aw man, you shouldn’t have,” is all Dean can muster before he absolutely wolfs down the omelet, which, to be quite honest, tastes almost as good as the pie they shared last night. And that’s saying something.

“Don’t worry,” Castiel tells him, stuffing himself with food as well, “I’m gonna ask for something in return this time.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I need more paint, you have a car, do the math. So, are you free this afternoon? Please be free this afternoon, I don’t want to call up my brother for this.”

Dean laughs – the sound free and sudden, but it makes perfect sense to be laughing in this sunlit kitchen. Dean doesn’t necessarily like summer, but he realizes that he might be growing to like this one. Castiel looks incredible in a plain white shirt, thin and well-worn. Only in summer.

“Actually, I’m free all day,” he says, successfully pushing back all thoughts of the case, the missing kids, everything. This sunlit kitchen is all that exists, Castiel smiling back at him in it.

Dean soon realizes that there’s not a lot to do in an art supply store if you’re not an artist.

Within three minutes, and that’s parking in front of the store and getting inside, he is bored out of his damn mind. It reminds him of when Sam talked him into going to the library and they always ended up in the non-fiction section – not Dean’s favorite when he was a kid, his interest in cars and books about them came later on. He was just as bored, every time. 

But it gave him memories, which is why he keeps his mouth shut now and simply shakes his head over how excited Castiel seems to be about pencils and sketchbooks.

It becomes insufferable, though. Another five minutes later and Dean wants to crawl out of his skin. Like a child, he figures the only way to make this sufferable bearable again is to tease Castiel, somehow.

It’s around noon, the silent gap between the morning rush and the lunch break; apart from a lady with ridiculously long ginger hair, they’re alone in the store. Plus, they’re in the back. The _perfect_ opportunity to be a child.

Dean picks up one of the paint brushes. He couldn’t have said what type it is if his life depended on it, honestly. All he knows is that the handle is long and that head is giant and looks rough and soft at the same time, somehow.

When he approaches Castiel, the guy is still buried in pencils, now obviously trying to decide between two. Under his arm, he’s squeezing a sketchbook, thick, with green edges. There’s a honeybee bookmark stuck in it. 

Dean walks up behind him. “Hey, Cas,” he says – whispers, really – before he runs the tip of the paintbrush across Castiel’s neck, ever-so-slightly, hoping with all his might that Castiel is ticklish.

And he is. Castiel shrieks and swats at his neck, knocking the paintbrush right out of Dean’s hand. And it’s freaking hilarious, making Dean burst out laughing.

Castiel takes the sketchbook and slams it against Dean’s shoulder, red in the face, a reluctant smile on his face. “Don’t do that!” he exclaims, loud.

Dean throws up his hands like he’s giving up and shakes his head, the remnants of his laugh still written across his face. “Absolutely. Sorry.”

Stepping away from Castiel, he picks the paintbrush back up again and watches as Castiel, ever so trusting, goes back to his pencil-related dilemma. 

Dean waits a moment, really, he does. Just to make Castiel believe that he won’t attack again. After a minute or so, however, he approaches again, as quiet as before.

The paintbrush is about an inch away from Castiel’s skin when Castiel speaks up, never looking up from the pencils. “You called me Cas.”

Dean startles, not expecting to hear Castiel’s voice, and the surprise knocks the paintbrush out of his fingers again. It brushes against Castiel’s neck on its way down to the ground, and while he jerks, he only gives Dean a scalding look.

Dean, meanwhile, is really struggling to keep it together. He didn’t even realize that he called Castiel anything other than _that_ , and the fact that his mind has come up with a nickname on its own is embarrassing. 

So embarrassing, in fact, that it makes him blush, and he knows it’s more than obvious against his freckles.

“Yeah, I guess I did. Sorry?” Dean tries, picking up the paintbrush again and putting it on a random shelf, right next to pencils, where it very much doesn’t belong.

Castiel smiles again. “I like it,” he says. When he reaches out with the sketchbook again, Dean flinches on impulse, but Castiel simply hands it to him. “Can you hold this for me for a second? I want to go look at canvases.”

Dean falters. There’s certain gentleness to Castiel’s movements and Dean grows soft under it; takes the sketchbook and grips it tight so as not to drop it. As he watches Castiel step by him and then walk towards the canvases, lined up neatly against the far wall, he can’t help thinking that he’s watching the most extraordinary thing he’s ever laid eyes on. He doesn’t know where the thought originates or what planted its seed, but it’s firm in his head. And he can’t look away. 

“So, you mentioned a brother?”

They’re back at the cabin, sitting outside. Dean has carried one of the patio chairs out into the sun for Castiel to sit in, closer to the woods. He occupies it, cross-legged, while Dean sits at his feet on the grass in pants and a white tee, sipping on a beer. It’s a hot summer day, just at its peak, and there are a few droplets of sweat appearing on both their foreheads. Dean doesn’t mind and Castiel is willing to suffer through it, slowly sketching rows of trees in his brand new sketchbook.

Castiel looks away from it, tapping the pencil – also brand new – against its edge. “Yeah. Two, actually, and a sister.”

“I take it you all don’t really get on?” Dean asks, soft. He doesn’t know if this is allowed, but he figured he could try – no harm in that.

Castiel’s fingers nip at the paper. “I love them, especially my sister. It’s just, my brothers – they don’t really – ah. It’s hard to explain.”

“They don’t think it’s okay to make a living with art?” Dean guesses.

“Something like that. Michael – the oldest one – he doesn’t think it’s a real job. Gabriel is more supportive, he’s usually the one I call when I need something, he just worries. You know, that I’m not going to make it or that it’ll ruin me. It’s sweet, in a way, but it puts this _doubt_ in my head, like what if he’s right? And I just – I don’t need that.”

“Drains all the creative juices, I imagine,” Dean mumbles. 

“Yeah,” Cas agrees. “But I love them anyway.” For a second, he keeps playing with the paper, tearing it a millimeter. “You? Do you have any siblings?”

Dean takes a big gulp of his beer, looking away towards the woods anyway even though he knows Castiel’s eyes are still on him. “Have a younger brother. He’s in college.”

“You don’t sound too happy about it,” Castiel suggests carefully.

Dean scoffs, squinting against the sun. “I don’t know. I’m not too happy that he’s gone, but he deserves it. The guy’s as smart as they come.”

“What college?”

“Stanford. On a scholarship.” 

“Wow. That’s admirable. What’s he studying?”

“Law. Wants to be a big lawyer. I guess he wants to do right by the world, or – I don’t really know. It’s complicated,” Dean mumbles, and he’s only partially hoping that that’ll be the end of it.

And as if Castiel could understand the silent need to talk about it more: “I take it you used to be close?”

Dean sighs and places the beer bottle in the grass, playing with it with his fingers. “Pretty much inseparable all through childhood, even as teenagers. But he wanted out – of the family business, I mean – and… It’s weird not having him around, y’know? So used to someone and then they’re just – gone, and you can’t really blame them either. ‘S just, it’s weird.” 

Castiel nods. “I get it. But hey,” he says, and he leans over the armrest to gently touch Dean’s arm, “it doesn’t mean he won’t come back, or that he’s not there anymore, necessarily. It just means he needed to leave and do this, but leaving doesn’t always mean not being there. Have you guys been talking?”

Castiel’s hand on Dean’s shoulder is a vibrant, otherworldly entity. “Not really.”

“Maybe you should call him up,” Castiel suggests, and his hand suddenly leaves, and even despite the summer sun, Dean’s skin feels cold, like he’s been freezing in a cruel winter for hours.

“Maybe,” he admits. But that’s the part of the conversation he doesn’t really feel like talking about, and so he looks away again; focuses on the memory of Castiel’s touch instead, which isn’t really… better. In a way, it’s worse.

What did it take – a slight movement, Castiel didn’t even have to try that hard – to touch Dean – and what a mark it has left. 

When Dean looks back, Castiel is back to sketching, his head tilted to the side, his wrist busy moving across the paper, dragging the pencil along in practiced moves. What an extraordinary thing indeed.

Dean looks at him, into him, through him. He watches the sun lean against his dark hair, lie against his smooth skin. He watches the rays of sunlight as they disappear in between Cas’ fingers and hide in the shadow of his palm. Dean notices, astonished, the way Castiel is pursing his lips and squinting his eyes, as if trying to find an angle in which it would be easy to capture the world. 

Dean recognizes the kindness, the aura of it that hovers all around Cas, and he feels lucky. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt this lucky before. 

There have been women, delicious and kind, and stolen glances at beautiful boys, but none of them made Dean’s chest swell like this, his heart flutter like this, his fingers tremble like this. 

Two days. A chaos of minutes and moments. That’s all it’s taken for Dean to feel like he might never be able to walk away, because, because… because Cas loves his siblings and leaving doesn’t mean not being there and sometimes, things are simply just that simple.

What would it take – a slight movement, Dean wouldn’t even have to try that hard – to get on his knees and lean over and press a reluctant kiss into Cas’ skin, anywhere. What a mark it would leave. It could be terrible, it could be a bleeding wound, but it could be mesmerizing, a window, letting light in.

It really wouldn’t take a lot, and who is Dean to say no to this when it’s begging to happen? At least, his heart thinks so. What a cheesy thing to admit. It’s like there’s nothing to lose – it’s like Cas would be good and kind even about rejecting Dean.

His heartbeat picks up like that of a frightened child running from a nightmare – he’d know, after all – and his hands are covered in sweat, hard to tell whether it’s the summer or the possibility that’s hunting him. He could do it. He could just lean over and he could –

A phone rings, and it takes two or so painful seconds for Dean to realize that it’s _his_ phone that is demanding attention.

He groans – it slips out before he can control it – and the spell is definitely broken. Castiel never even caught Dean watching, even though it’s been minutes. 

“Just a second,” he says, getting up even as his limbs protest – _no let’s sit here for ten hours more_ – and pulling his phone out of his back pocket. 

His heart sinks when he sees that it’s his Dad calling. Shit. 

“Yeah?” he says when he picks up, already feeling like he’s about to take some bitching. He _is_. He’s here on a case and he’s done close to no research; instead, he’s been ogling a pretty boy. 

There’s some rustling in the background; vaguely, it reminds Dean of hamburger wrappers. Probably an in-car lunch, the perfect moment to call. “Any news?”

“I…” Dean trails off, pressing the heels of his hand against his eyes, his face scrunched up. Jesus Christ, he hasn’t had to lie about a case in _years_. He doesn’t know how to do it anymore. “Not really.”

“What d’ya mean not really?” John asks, and yeah, he’s definitely talking around a mouthful of food, chewing and speaking at the same time. What a multitasker. “You’ve been there three days.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean mumbles, “It’s just, the people around here aren’t very – uh – actually, I’m just ‘bout to head out to talk to some, so I should know more by tonight. Also, library! Totally happening in a bit.”

There’s a short silence. “”Kay. Just call me when you know more.”

“Will do, sir,” Dean says quickly. The conversation simply cuts there – John hangs up, as he always does, and Dean doesn’t even mind. 

The phone still clutched in his hand, he realizes he’s walked all the way to the patio, even climbed the stairs. His skin grows cold here, as it’s finally found shade. He turns around, only to find Cas already watching him. He waves him over.

Cas leaves the sketchbook on the rattan chair, but he’s still holding the pencil when he jogs to Dean, stepping into the shadow as well. “Yeah?” he asks.

“I need to head into town for a – unexpected business meeting, sorry.”

“Oh,” Castiel says and Dean can’t help but think that it really did sound a bit disappointed, like maybe he wasn’t the only one enjoying sitting out in the sun. “Well, that’s okay.”

“I should be back in a few hours. Do you want me to stop for more pie on my way back?” he asks, careful, with his heart skipping a beat because for some reason, it almost sounded as if he was asking Cas out on a date.

Castiel laughs. “Nah, don’t spoil me,” he says, waves his hand like it’s nothing – and it probably isn’t, except it is, for Dean.

“It woulda been no problem,” Dean says, “but yeah, sure. Don’t want to make a princess out of you. What would your brothers think? An artist, fine, but a _spoiled_ artist?”

To be honest, Dean expects another laugh. He knows it’s a stupid joke, he knows it’s not even appropriate. He knows it’s the kind of teasing he would allow himself with Sam or with a really close friend; yet it came out of his mouth like it was nothing. And he _hopes_ for another laugh, one that never comes.

Instead, Castiel goes and does it.

His lips press against Dean’s like they have always been meant to land there. It’s like their journey there has been exhausting but they’re finally home; soft but urgent, and Dean sighs when it happens because it’s like he’s been expecting them, just like they were trying to get here. It feels perfect.

It shouldn’t feel perfect. Should it? 

Then Castiel goes to wrap his arms around Dean, as if to keep him close, but what a ridiculous thing that is, who would want that – and the pointy end of his pencil jabs Dean in the shoulder slightly. It doesn’t hurt but it makes Dean jump away, and his ribs ache with the movement all over again.

“Oh God, I didn’t mean to – ” Castiel starts, looking down at the pencil in his hand with horror and, comically enough, sticking it behind his ear.

“It’s fine,” Dean says quickly, taking another step back. 

There’s the briefest of moments where he considers resting his hands on Castiel’s shoulders; his palms are tired, they would find calm there. He entertains the thought of renewing the kiss, reentering that perfect-ness.

The moment, however, is so brief that it means absolutely nothing in the history of time.

“I’ve really gotta go,” he says instead, and no matter how much he wants to look at Cas, he denies himself that option. He would want to stay. He does want to stay. Fuck, if only he could stay.

But these things don’t happen. They don’t work. They are not Dean. 

These are excuses but he fools himself into thinking they are truths.

“And that’s the last time you heard from her?” Dean asks the distressed mother of Missing Person #2 – a young seventeen year old, Gracie. 

“Yes,” the woman confirms, pearly tears brimming in her heavily eyeliner-ed eyes. “I’m sorry I can’t do any more to help.”

“You helped a lot, ma’am,” Dean says and tries a soft smile, hopefully something along the lines of _comforting_ and _sweet_. 

“Have you found the other boy yet? Do you know who’s taking the kids?”

 _Yeah, probably a vengeful ghost. Got any extra salt?_ Dean sighs and sticks his notepad into the inner pocket of his blazer (the I’m a Private Eye one). “Not yet, no. But the police are working on it, and I’m trying my best.” 

“Do you,” the mother starts then trails off, briefly touching her cherry-blossom lips before continuing, “Do the boy’s parents think it’s someone specific taking the kids? Is that why they hired you? Oh my God, has this person taken Gracie too?”

Dean would offer a gentle shoulder pat if he dared, but he knows better, so he simply shakes his head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t disclose that information. You were a real help, though. Thank you very much.” He’s learned _nothing_ from her.

“If there’s anything else I can do –”

“I’ll give you a call.” He gives her another smile (he hopes that this one is reassuring) and offers a quick _see you later_ , which she reciprocates. 

On his way to the car, Dean goes over everything he’s got so far, which isn’t much. Gracie’s mother wasn’t the first person he stopped to talk to; there were the girl’s friends, and the missing boy’s friends (again), and all their answers add up to is a giant mess. One group claimed the creature that took their friend looked like a bear, the other a superfast human, and there was even a very special someone in each group who insisted that their friend just _vanished_ and they didn’t actually see what took him (or her).

The only lead Dean’s got, thanks to his surprisingly quick visit to the library, is that of a years-ago accident when another local man disappeared in the woods. No one could agree on what happened then, either. So, his best bet is that it’s said man causing all this mess. Someone probably offed him in the woods and now he’s getting back at society, yadda yadda. You know how ghosts are.

He phones John to ease his conscience the second he gets into the car. He reports all he’s learned and after he hangs up with a promise to call back later, he feels lighter.

For approximately one second.

Then he remembers that thing. _The_ thing. The thing with Cas before he left. And his lips hum with it.

He tries to stop that. Tries to stop feeling like that kiss was the best thing that’s happened to him in the past year, but it’s to no avail, because despite everything, he knows very well that that’s exactly how it is. Legitimately the best thing that’s happened pretty much since Sam left for Stanford.

And in a way, it makes him feel guilty, that he allowed this to happen. He feels guilty for enjoying it, but surprisingly, it’s not because Cas is a guy. It’s simply because he hasn’t felt much like having fun since it’s been just him and his dad, and it’s come to feel wrong.

But was it wrong? To have fun, away from everything, away from his family? God, he even considers Castiel’s suggestion about ringing Sam up, asking him about it, but he doesn’t want to interrupt anything, and what would he even say? 

_So uh I kinda kissed a guy and now I’m confused_. 

Thanks. He’d rather have this weird sexuality crisis – is that even what it is? – without his younger brother getting involved.

Damn, though. Within five minutes of mindless driving from the suburban-y part of the town to the other where the Gas n Sip is, he comes to the conclusion that this is somehow all his fault -- even though he can clearly recall Cas’ lips pressing against his own. Still, it must be his fault. Somehow. Surely.

Groaning, he bangs his head against the wheel the moment he stops in the mostly empty parking lot. Fuck. How is this his life right now? 

In the middle of a case; in the middle of an actual romance-y crisis because hello, he met a cute boy and they sort of kissed and holy shit, this cute boy had seen him naked when he saved his ass. _Holy shit._ That hadn’t even occurred to Dean before. 

He groans again.

Well, it could be worse. Dean could look a lot worse naked. He could have done something stupid when Cas kissed him, like lick or bite or whatever. That would have been worse than staring at Cas dumbly. 

The need to apologize nags at Dean anyway; it’s half the reason that along with noodle soup and another pie (spoiling an artist is okay sometimes), he also buys a six-pack. He doesn’t know a lot about Castiel, but a six-pack should work as an apology. Right?

When he gets back to the cabin, the drive feeling familiar even though he’s only made it a couple of times, it comes down to him being straight-out shy. He even knocks on the door despite knowing that it’s open, and he’s met with a very confused face when Cas appears in the doorway.

“I brought beer,” Dean says almost quietly and brushes past Cas, bee-lining straight into the kitchen. He drops the food on top of the table and places the six-pack right next to it, then quickly positions himself by the kitchen counter, to face Castiel when he comes in. Which happens within seconds, and Dean is definitely not ready.

It’s hard to squeeze out an apology – not only because the whole situation feels kind of embarrassing. There’s this kind, expectant smile on Cas’ face, almost inviting, and Dean doesn’t know what to do with that. 

“I –” he starts, but has to look away because he’s getting nowhere with that smile right in front of him. “I wanted to apologize for earlier.” 

There’s silence. And then, “What are you apologizing for, exactly?”

Dean takes a deep breath; somehow, he’s not surprised that Cas is making him spell it out. “The – the kiss, man.”

“You mean the one _I_ initiated?” Castiel asks again and when Dean’s head shoots up, he sees him pointing at himself, almost accusatory. “You’re apologizing for that?”

Dean shrugs, trying his best not to feel cornered, standing against the kitchen counter and clutching its edges with all his might. His heart beats like a panicked bird and he can’t stop. “I – I guess.”

Castiel squints and just, just _looks_ at Dean, as if trying to find the answer to some unasked question in his features. He seems to come up blank, though, because his shoulders fall and he sighs. “If anything, I should be the one apologizing.”

“No, I definitely –”

“So, tell me. Should I apologize?” And yet again, the unasked, silent question. Dean can’t tear his eyes away now.

Instead, _he_ asks himself the unasked question. Or, well, the one hidden behind the asked one. Did Dean really mind that the kiss happened? Did it upset him, did it – did it tear him apart? That last bit is true, it feels like it has torn him apart, but still, not in the bad way. Definitely not in the bad way. But how does one admit something like that, for the first time? Dean feels tiny and unimportant and he wishes there would be someone holding his hand through this – Sam or dad or whoever – and then he realizes that that someone is standing right in front of him.

Still, saying it is too much, so Dean runs to the next best thing: he shakes his head, _no, no, no no no, there’s nothing to apologize for._

Even Cas’ eyes smile, and it’s a good look on him; Dean likes it, just as much as the next lovely part of him. There’s a surprising amount of those.

“Okay, good. I was almost worried.” Castiel nods, as if to himself.

Dean breathes out and his heart hammers, booming through his chest like a drum; but it beats in victory. He finally allows himself to smile as well, and the imaginary weight falls off his shoulders. The six-pack is forgotten; the apology as well.

With this out in the open, it seems almost easy to open his mouth and spill out just how much he liked that kiss and how grateful he is for it; how it felt like New Year’s Eve and a lazy morning all at the same time, how it brightened up his world but he wouldn’t mind if it got swallowed by darkness, as long as the kiss was there. How the kiss was pretty much everything, and Dean never thought it could taste like this.

He almost says it – he probably would, if only it wasn’t for Castiel’s lips back against his, warm and eager and slightly wet, a slight brush of their mouths preventing Dean from speaking.

When Castiel pulls away, Dean’s lips are a shimmer of post-kiss daze, red and wet with _Cas was here_. He knows he must look like someone wiped his brain blank (he feels that dumbness that happiness brings clouding over his mind), and so must his smile, but he smiles anyway. 

His fingers are still wrapped around Cas’ arms and he’s not letting go. He is not letting go.

“Hey, wanna see my secret?” Cas asks suddenly, his smile as happy as Dean’s; he’s almost bouncing on his heels.

“You mean your art?”

“Yes. I haven’t – I haven’t shared it with anyone yet, but I’d like to hear your opinion on it.”

Castiel leads them both out of the kitchen and down the hallway and Dean tries to talk himself out of feeling like an intruder. He doesn’t know these rooms, he’s walked down this hallway _once_ , maybe, and he feels out of place; like it shouldn’t be him who gets to see whatever Cas has been working on. 

It’s not a secret hiding behind a locked door, though. They simply get there and the door is not even _closed_ properly, there’s a thin stripe of darkness pouring out; or rather, a tiny space for the light of the hallway to pour in. Castiel nudges the door open and flicks the lights on.

It’s hard to tell what Dean had been expecting, and it’s hard to tell whether what he sees meets that expectation.

The thing is… well, Dean is not an art expert. His eyes can’t see what other artists, or art critics, can see no problem. It’s not that he can’t appreciate beauty, he just – hell, that’s pretty much all he can do. 

He feels stupid, not being able to give an actual opinion, but he knows that he can definitely do the appreciating here. Because if Cas’ art is anything, it’s damn beautiful. There are a lot of canvases, hours upon hours of work concentrated in the strokes of a brush, colorful or not. 

Most of the paintings capture nature. They are of the cabin and its surroundings; some are vibrant green, some are darker, but they are all filled with playful colors, one disappearing into another. At first glance, all of them look happy and joyful, even the ones that reveal silhouettes and details; hands and mouths and eyes. But there’s something behind them, as if hiding, as if there was a different painting underneath that Castiel had to draw over. A certain emptiness to them at the same time, the lack of whatever is hidden. Obvious overabundance of fake happiness.

“Oh.” Dean hums, his eyes jumping from one painting to the next. “Oh, wow.”

And then he blushes: what a dumb, dumb thing to say.

Castiel laughs, though, and Dean is taken aback when he laces their fingers together, Cas’ presence heavy and constant by Dean’s side. “Pretty much exactly what I wanted to hear.”

Dean turns to the side, relieved, and somehow, it’s him this time who gathers up the courage to initiate another kiss. His lips catch Cas’ easily and they both turn to face each other, limbs and steps awkward so as not to break the kiss. Soon enough, Cas’ hands come to rest over Dean’s flushed cheeks and Dean’s wrap around Cas’ own hands, perhaps to keep him close.

At the back of his mind, Dean knows that this should feel wrong; to be enveloped by all this beauty and to kiss with not a single beautiful thought in his head. Actually, no thoughts at all; he thinks in brief images of Cas, his eyes, his lips, even though he’s blinked his own eyes closed.

The one thing he’s still afraid to do in case he fucks up is speak; so he doesn’t. As much as he would love to mumble quiet words right into Castiel’s mouth, he keeps them for himself and hopes that his movements, his lips can do the job for him.

He’s sure that the way they kiss and move against each other is enough of a confession. 

There’s nothing to say, after all: he lets Cas back him up against the wall without complaint, and Castiel would have to be stupid to misunderstand Dean’s willingness.

Still, despite the wall pressed against Dean’s back, despite the stool he accidentally kicked over, despite Cas’ hands firmly placed over Dean’s chest, then roaming freely over it, they’re not frantic. Not panicky. Their breathing quickens but doesn’t grow shallow.

It’s almost calm, lazy, the way they just keep on kissing. It’s easy, and Dean does feel at ease with Castiel’s mouth pressed against his.

It’s this moment, when Cas sighs and it vibrates against Dean’s lips, when he realizes that sometimes, this is all that matters. All that _can_ matter. Not at any given moment, but now. And he realizes that it can be this easy with a man as it can be with a woman, and there’s nothing wrong with that. 

Castiel’s hips, his body, the slight stubble rooting around his mouth: nothing about it feels alien against Dean’s skin and that’s okay. 

A moan lingers at the back of Dean’s throat, tired and prolonged, and Cas’ teeth catch on Dean’s bottom lip, tugging at it, releasing it only to lick at it with his warm wet tongue.

It feels like heaven. It feels like monsters aren’t real. Dean never should have worried after that first kiss. 

Eventually, they retreat back through the hallway and the kitchen to the living room. They sit on the big brown couch underneath the open window, cicadas and the rustling of the nearby trees taking the role of their background music.

It never ceases to feel like heaven; the monsters never come to attack.

Believe it or not, the novelty of clean sheets doesn’t wear off, not even on the third day. Dean still feels spoiled when he wakes up; and he smiles to himself when he realizes where he is, and who’s sleeping just a few feet away, practically one door away. 

“Hey there,” Castiel says and Dean’s smile freezes.

He turns around on the bed and instinctively pulls the sheets all the way up to his chin, even though he’s never been shy. Castiel is seated in an armchair on the other side of the room, looking quite comfortable, even though they kissed and kissed goodnight and went to sleep in separate rooms.

“Oh God, you really are the creepy stranger,” Dean says and honestly, it’s only a half-joke. Nothing – no one – that has ever watched Dean sleep turned out to be good.

Castiel motions towards his sketchbook. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to draw you, you looked lovely.”

“I’m not a French girl,” Dean says grumpily, which earns him a frown from Castiel, but he relaxes and lets the sheets drip back down towards his waist, revealing a collection of bruises and scars on his chest. “Still creepy.”

“I originally came to wake you up, but then couldn’t make myself do it,” Castiel admits. “Do you mind if I continue for a little while?”

Dean sizes him up, looks him up and down. He stares at the sketchbook in Castiel’s hands and tries to imagine himself captured on paper: a well-calculated pattern of lines, of drags of pencil. He can’t imagine it being beautiful, but the look in Cas’ eyes tries to convince him otherwise. 

“I do mind, actually,” he hears himself say, because that look takes him and refuses to let him go, and all that he can think about is the thickness of Cas’ thighs, how much warmer the sheets would be if Dean wasn’t alone, how smooth Cas’ skin would feel against his. It’s a naughty, naughty thought, but it’s early in the morning, there’s intimacy in the air, and Dean decides to run with it. “C’mere.”

Castiel grips the sketchbook. “How about _you_ come _here_?”

Blood rushes both ways: it gathers on Dean’s cheeks, coloring them red, and runs down to his crotch where it burns to life.

Dean doesn’t say no. There’s a clear challenge and he likes those; no comments necessary.

Besides, there’s something about the way Castiel is holding on to his sketchbook; as if those lines weren’t just those of Dean’s sleeping body. As if they revealed inches of skin, as if reality gave away to fantasy, as if Castiel let his mind run free. As if his _you come here_ was a line written down in dirty drawings.

Dean throws the sheets off his body and, in his boxers, he gets out of the bed on Castiel’s side. Almost immediately, he drops to his knees, and in a moment, the intimacy turns into tension, the good kind. Eye contact, that’s important. It’s what creates it.

When Dean gets to Cas, he kneels by his feet. “I’m here. What now?”

“Now kiss me,” Castiel breathes out and Dean moves, holds himself up against Castiel’s thighs so he can reach the finish line: Cas’ lips. They taste like morning coffee and they open willingly for Dean’s tongue. “Now pull me up,” Cas mumbles into the kiss and Dean’s fingers find Castiel’s; he laces them together and not daring to break the kiss, he does as he’s told. “Now undress me.”

Their bodies press together and the more skin Dean reveals (there goes the shirt, the sweatpants, the underwear, even his own, they are as they were when they were born, the beginning of everything is at their feet), the more electricity there is. A shock to the system: one touch and Dean could die. 

“Now?” he breathes, almost desperate. 

They are dancing a strange dance in the middle of the room where neither of them moves, their erections touching, their bodies pulsing.

“Now let me take care of it,” Castiel whispers, his hands roaming Dean’s body like he is a territory yet to be mapped, a valley here, a river delta there, the scars mountaintops great and small. Castiel doesn’t miss any with his careful hands, as if he were tending to flowers.

And then they fuck. There’s no other way around it, really. As lazy as their kisses were the previous night, they are hungry animals now.

Dean’s legs spread like they never have for anyone before, Castiel’s fingers digging into the delicate skin. Slick bodies, slick with sweat and drop of lube, can make a mess. But Castiel does take care of it – he takes care of it all.

Most of all, he takes care of Dean. On his back, even on his knees with Castiel inside him, pressing deeper and deeper in a faster and faster pace, he feels like he could be captured as beautiful. The _fuck_ ’s and _ah_ ’s that fight their out of their mouths don’t make it feel vulgar at all; each of those words is a thrill that adds to it, a confession of _you made me feel this way_.

Dean is on his back again, his fingers squeezing Castiel’s shoulders, when he comes. Castiel comes half a minute later, his body heavy but beautiful as it collapses over Dean’s.

“This can be _our_ secret,” Dean whispers into the sweat-damp skin of Cas’ shoulder after a few minutes; after his breath finally evens out.

Cas’ tiny kisses against Dean’s collarbone are life-threatening weapons; they are little bombs. He keeps dropping them on every inch of skin he can reach. “I don’t want it to be a secret.”

“I know,” Dean says, Castiel’s hand in his hair, tugging at it playfully, _another round soon_ , it seems to promise. “I don’t want it to be a secret either.”

Round two, of course, never happens, because even though things can be simply simple sometimes, it still doesn’t mean that they’ll be easy as well. 

John calls Dean when they’re four long kisses into it, Dean straddling Cas’ hips, moving his own in circles, his ass brushing over the tip of Cas’ half-hard cock ever so slightly now and then.

“I have to run again,” Dean apologizes, fingers tracing Castiel’s chest, marveling at how untouched, how smooth, how pale it is in comparison to Dean’s. “I don’t want to.”

“Then don’t,” Castiel teases.

“I have to. It’s my Dad, he would kill me if I didn’t show up.” It’s strange enough that John even wants to show up himself for a stupid ghost case. Simply simple; not easy. 

It still takes Dean ages to leave: they become quick kisses between pieces of clothing. Dean puts on his t-shirt and Castiel steals his mouth for minutes. His pants and Castiel makes it his mission to suck a bruise on Dean’s inner arm, as if there wasn’t one already. “The other one’s not a love bruise,” Castiel protests when Dean groans about it.

“ _Love bruise_? Who are you?” Dean teases and decides to leave one on Cas’ arm as well.

It’s never ending, but it does end, even though Dean wants to stay for hours and hours. He doesn’t want to rush into town, he doesn’t want to meet up with John, he wants to exist within this bubble forever instead. He wants to be something Cas would like to draw. He never wants to stop being that – at least not right now.

It’s not a brief moment now – it does mean something in the history of time. Dean is sure of it.

Despite that, and despite how monumental and life-changing this whole experience feels – so much happiness, how does one bear it? Dean isn’t used to it, but for possibly the first time, he’s not scared to take it for himself.

He still has to go, though.

So he does, because he can’t fail an order. The car, empty, makes Dean sad, and for the second time in one week, he considers calling Sam just to share this. He would, if only the drive into town wasn’t so short. (Or maybe there’s a little part of him that’s still a coward about it, but he _will_ call at some point, he’s pretty sure by now).

The drive, however short, is filled with thoughts of Cas and how much nicer it would be if Dean weren’t alone right now. If he was still in that sunlit room instead. 

God. Heaven. All found in that tiny, limited space. Dean sighs to himself. 

His meeting with the oldest Winchester on the parking lot near the motel makes it feel like they’re two strangers; John offers a hug, though, and Dean sinks into it, however quick it is (barely a few seconds).

The next thing Dean has to consider are the words he wants to say, but it’s useless: I can honestly take care of this on my own, I’m capable, you don’t have to keep watch, it’s just a damn ghost and I can deal with it.

Instead, he says, “I’ve got some rock salt shells in the truck,” and goes to retrieve them from the Impala. He knows they’ll drive in John’s car together, even though the Impala used to be John’s favorite girl, right after Mary.

“No need,” John stops him right away, already on his way to the driver’s seat.

Dean stops dead in his tracks. “What d’you mean?”

“It’s not a ghost is what I mean,” John explains (although very vaguely) and gets into his car, slamming the door. Dean doesn’t have any option but to follow

John starts the engine the second Dean closes the door.

“What is it, then?” Dean asks as they leave the almost vacant motel parking lot and drive out onto the road, leading towards the woods. 

“It’s a Wendigo.”

“Right.”

“Supposedly, it’s a creature that used to be human. Imagine a couple of people left alone in the woods and one of them gets really hungry and they’ve nothing else to eat – that’s how you get these.”

“You mean –”

“Yeah. I looked into the case you mentioned to me – the other guy that got lost in the woods years ago. Turns out he wasn’t alone. There was a woman as well, she wasn’t mentioned in the paper because he was cheating with her. Hard to tell which one of them turned – but our best bet is that it’s one of them. They got pretty hungry after a while and I’ll bet they weren’t good at hunting.”

“Jesus Christ,” Dean murmurs, trying to reorder his mind to process this. “So the girl and the boy that are missing, they’ve probably been eaten –”

“Not necessarily,” John interrupts him again. “Wendigos have lairs where they keep their victims: they don’t eat them right away, or in one sitting. They could both still be alive, if we’re lucky.”

“So how do you kill these bastards?”

“Fire. Silver bullets can do some damage…”

And that is, officially, where Dean zones out. Not the wisest decision, but it’s not like he has any power over it. His thoughts simply escape all of his logical thinking and run to the one thing that currently interests them: Cas. Cas, who is alone in the cabin, who held Dean close just mere minutes ago, and holy shit, this all suddenly seems much bigger.

If there was a ghost on the loose, it would attack in only a restricted area. This way, though? Who the hell knows how far a freaking _Wendigo_ will go to find food? It might find a lovely cabin with a very much edible occupant and shit, shit, Dean is panicking.

“Can we stop by this cabin in the woods?” he asks John, breathless, probably interrupting a sentence or a heavy silence, both equally serious in John’s eyes.

“What?” John asks, throwing a quick glance at Dean, “What for?”

“There’s this guy I’ve been – talking to. I thought he’d be safe since I thought it was just a ghost, but I don’t want him to get involved in this.”

John frowns and sizes Dean up from his driver’s seat, but Dean, somehow, manages to hold his ground. There are two more questions (Is this guy connected to the case? What the hell have you been talking to him about?) but Dean dodges both and ultimately, gets permission to stop there.

“But Christ, be quick about it,” John instructs him in his vaguely grumpy voice when they stop in front of Cas’ cabin. He doesn’t even kill the engine.

“Yes, sir,” Dean says again and he gets out of the car, jogging towards the cabin.

It’s fear combined with anxiety combined with the thrill of the upcoming hunt (which used to scare him but it doesn’t anymore), and his heart is hammering in his chest for its dear life.

Except – except Castiel is nowhere to be found. Dean runs through the studio, the kitchen, he even takes a peak at the rose bushes outside, but Cas just isn’t there. It’s weird, not finding him there: the memory of him, blissful and naked and in Dean and with Dean is still so vivid and clear, Dean never even thought that Cas wasn’t tied to this one spot, at the very rightest of times.

In his haste, Dean fails to spot the little note resting on the kitchen counter against the mug they drank coffee out of this morning for the longest time. It only grabs his attention when he runs past it and it takes flight, smoothly sliding over the kitchen counter and down to Dean’s feet.

Annoyed, Dean picks it back up, for whatever reason. He would place it back on the kitchen counter if it weren’t for the pen-scribbled heart decorating the bottom right corner.

_If you get back before I do – I went out into the woods to paint, it felt like that kind of day. I’ll be back; no worries, I’ve gotten to know these woods in the past two months, I won’t slip ;)_

_(thank you for our morning.)_

_C._

For a second – just a millisecond – Dean lets the note take him; he even smiles at it, especially at the last words, before the meaning of it really gets to him.

Cas went out into the woods alone. Where the human-turned-monster is probably looking for another person to take. 

Honestly, Dean’s sprint into the woods isn’t either graceful _or_ organized, but it serves its purpose. John takes it as enthusiasm or initiative or both, who cares, Dean doesn’t, but he follows. Once in the woods, Dean actually slows down and lets his father catch up to him, but he never halts to a full stop.

“What the hell, Dean?” John asks once they’re both walking side by side briskly, exasperated. “What’s gotten into you?”

“The guy I wanted to warn, he went out alone,” Dean explains briefly, and that’s about all he gives John. “We should split up for a little while, meet in a few minutes to see if we find anything.”

John seems taken aback by the sudden change in Dean, but he ends up nodding. “Good. Five minutes, and don’t let me out of your sight.”

They part, widening the gap between them, to the point where John is a little more than just a small silhouette when Dean looks in his direction. Truth be told, he doesn’t pay much attention to him, despite John’s specific order. His heart is still hammering away, but now it’s just pure fear. Something Dean hasn’t felt since he was a teenager, probably, on one of the bad hunts. He never wanted to revisit this feeling, but it’s here and he can’t escape it.

When he thinks the distance between his father and him is great enough, he tries out calling for Cas, in a short burst, and then again in about half a minute. 

Checking his watch constantly, he’s well aware that he’s running out of time. He’ll have to go meet John in just two short minutes, and the longer he takes, the worse his chances are of getting Cas out of this unharmed.

He’s barely got a minute left when –

“Dean!”

Dean startles, recognizing the voice as Cas’ almost immediately. He looks back – the eye contact he makes with John is brief and John’s eyes are definitely saying _stay put, wait up_ , but then Dean looks away and sets off running towards the voice.

Cas’ voice rings out twice more and Dean follows it, obedient almost like a loyal dog; his lungs squeeze around the distant burn of exhaustion but he doesn’t stop. The fact that Cas’ voice seems closer and closer each time drives him on.

And then he catches something unrecognizable out of the corner of his eye. Then on the other side; right in front of him. _Dean_ , the voice whispers and Dean no longer recognizes it as Cas’. The voice is right here, as if circling him, but Castiel is nowhere to be seen.

Then again: a fast, slender something running past him, barely a smudge, definitely not a human being. Dean can’t even take a proper look at it, it’s so fast. The leaves barely rustle when it runs past them, when it climbs the trees, when it jumps. Dean has never seen anything this fast and deadly, and even though he draws his gun, loaded with nice silver bullets, he never knows what to fire at, how to – he panics. He straight out panics because it isn’t about him, because he cares, and _that_ is truly scary, and he panics like a kid.

Thank God John decided to come along – if it weren’t for him and his eye, if it weren’t for his Zippo and the can of spray (a deodorant at that) that creates a nice flame, Dean would probably be hanging upside down in some creature’s fucking lair, ready to be eaten. All for a fucking guy with crazy nice eyes and really gentle hands and a ridiculously big heart and smile and Jesus Christ, he’s worth it.

“Thanks,” Dean manages once the creature screeches and sets off running, much like Dean did just minutes ago. “Didn’t know the thing would try to lure me in, I –”

“Well, next time listen to me when I talk to you in the car, Jesus!” John exclaims, half-angry and half-relieved. “Why the hell weren’t you listening to me, kid?”

And, oh, that one always gets Dean. The _kid_ one, whenever John pulls it. It’s the deadly combination of I’m-angry-with-you-but-you’re-my-child-thank-God-you’re-fine. Dean absolutely despises it.

“I was,” he grumbles, trying to catch his breath, restoring his balance. “Let’s follow it?” he suggests, making sure to pose it as a question.

John nods.

The fire has hurt the creature badly: there’s no blood to follow, but there’s a distinct mess it’s left behind on its wild run for safety. Broken branches, scratch marks scarring the trees’ rough skin. It’s stupidly easily to follow, so easy that it feels like a trap, but they are the ones with guns, so they follow it anyway.

The lair they find is like nothing Dean’s ever seen. At first, it almost looks like a cave hiding between two bushes and a tree, but it smells of earth and gravel and gasoline, even though the creature hates fire. It smells ugly, and the scent intensifies as they go further into it, down the path.

“Flashlight,” John commands once they’re a few steps in and daylight ceases to guide them. Dean fishes out two from the bag he’s been carrying. He hands one over and keeps one for himself, turning it on. The light that pours out of it catches debris and dust flying through the air, but otherwise, there’s nothing.

It’s strangely quiet, Dean realizes. He expected the creature’s wailing or growling, depending on how pissed off it is, but it must have stayed outside or kept on running, because everything is quiet. All Dean can hear are their boots creaking against the dry ground.

Just when the path starts to seem endless, it opens up into a cavern where sound seems to echo infinitely. _Now_ there’s a groan.

Dean is reluctant to aim his flashlight towards the noise, but John does so right away. The light, once again, is startling in contrast to the darkness that surrounds them, and then it lands on the opposite wall. A scary, scary sight. Dean has probably seen worse, but it surprises him anyway.

Three figures, tied up and hanging from the ceiling. The girl, Gracie – Dean recognizes her. There is a bloody mess where her left arm once was. And the boy. Dean can’t recall his name for the life of him. There’s a wound on his forehead that nearly splits it in two. And then. Castiel. The one that groaned. Dean’s chest crumples and shrinks in on itself when he sees the blood-soaked t-shirt, the same simple white one he was wearing when Dean left the cabin.

This is what he does to people. Indirectly, of course, but there goes the sneaky thought that it’s his fault anyway. Then he wakes up from it.

Just like John, Dean breaks into a quick run towards the victims, aiming for Castiel without even thinking. In his peripheral vision, he can see John starting to untie the girl.

“I’m here,” he says to Cas in a hushed voice, briefly cupping his face in his shaky hands before mirroring his father’s movements and trying to untie him. Castiel mumbles something, mostly indistinguishable. 

_But that’s it_ , Dean thinks. He’s here. 

While his fingers work at the knot – surprisingly complex for a human-turned-cannibal-turned-Wendigo – he thinks, fuck, if he hadn’t been there and Cas still went out, which is very likely, he would have become monster-food in a few weeks. Shit. Dean decides to believe that instead of the ugly pang of guilt he felt.

“They alive?” Dean asks when all of them are untied and Castiel groans again, half-lying, half-sitting up against the wall. There’s an ugly cut exactly where that paint stain was when Dean came over that first night – it opens up red near his neck and runs down beneath his shirt, soaking through it.

“Yeah,” John says, checking the boy’s pulse once again. “Out cold, but they’ll live. That the guy you wanted to warn?”

“Yeah, that’s him alright,” Dean says, his palms itching to caress Cas’ cheeks, rub them so they bloom with color again. He’s deathly pale, even in the poor light. “I’m gonna take him back.”

“ _Now_?” John asks, shocked enough not to be angered, his eyebrows raised. He’s kneeling by the girl.

There’s a growl, now. It echoes through the cavern and somehow, it’s both distant and very close by. Dean moves his flashlight, noticing another route out for the first time. And another growl. 

“Yes, now,” he insists. “The thing is coming from over there,” he motions towards the path they followed to get here, “so I’ll go the other way. Listen. He won’t stop groaning.” As if on cue, Castiel groans again. “We can’t leave them here and if we hide all three of ‘em, the Wendigo would hear the guy and kill them. I’ll leave with him; you can hide the other two and kill it.”

“I could use a hand here, Dean,” John urges, but more than anything, he’s confused, throwing short sideways glances in Castiel’s way, as if trying to understand the situation.

“Oh, c’mon,” Dean grumbles, his shoulders rolling as he straightens up only to bend over and start to pick Cas up. Another groan. “You spent all those years when we were kids hunting alone, so don’t even try to pull this,” he hisses.

“Hold on,” John says, even though he goes to help Dean with Cas, maneuvering him so that his weight is mostly on Dean, his hand limp over Dean’s shoulder. “Is this about Sam? Being gone?”

Dean grimaces, breathing heavily under Cas’ weight. “What?”

“Is this whole attitude because Sam is gone? He knew what he was doing and I can’t--”

“No,” Dean cuts him off, almost disgusted. “As much as it sucks that Sam is gone, I’m happy for the dude. I’m just saying, don’t pretend like you need me here to deal with this.”

It seems to take John by surprise. Dean isn’t used to talking back or laying out the facts as they are – or at least what he thinks them to be. They stare at each other for a brief second, silent, until the Wendigo growls again, much closer than last time, and there’s a distinct noise of the ground moving and slipping underneath its legs, paws, whatever.

“Go, then,” John hisses, quiet now, already moving on to Gracie to hide her in the shadows. 

Dean nods and moves promptly – it makes him realize that even if John insisted that he stay, Dean would have tried to escape with Castiel. Because he _knows_ John Winchester can handle himself, but he doesn’t know that Cas would be safe if they both stayed there; this way, he can at least take care of that. Somehow it’s very important.

Castiel somewhat comes to once they’re outside: perhaps it’s the fresh air, or it’s Dean’s adrenaline that’s contagious, but soon, he starts doing more than just limping by Dean’s side. Dean hopes for a run, but that never happens – Castiel is still bleeding and he never uncurls his arm from around Dean’s neck. The trek through the woods seems endless but the cabin appears in sight, and by the time they get to it, Castiel’s groans have turned into sharp intakes of breath every now and then.

Dean even goes as far as to help Cas up onto the patio, the memory of them both sitting here and sharing food painful.

That’ll be gone now, that peace. Castiel looks up from the rattan chair: icy eyes, pale face, crimson blood-soaked shirt, a whole new palette Dean would be scared to paint with. What could be in those eyes now other than fear and rejection, really? Disbelief, maybe.

People always get scared. People always turn their backs on hunters once they find out. Why should Cas be any different? Castiel is bright and special and Dean would bet all his money that he remembers most of what happened.

Still, Castiel just looks up. Another one of those unasked questions for sure, but Dean chooses the coward’s way out this time: he decides not to answer it. He will not answer it unless it’s asked, and even then, he might still want to run away. But like this, it’s not that difficult to look away from the question mark on Castiel’s face. It’s not that difficult to talk himself into believing that it’s not a question mark; it’s a pang of pain, the blood loss.

“I need to get back,” Dean murmurs in the end, and if he weren’t so scared, if only he weren’t so scared, he would kiss him. “Are you alright?”

And Castiel looks. For a few more seconds, he keeps looking up from that rattan chair where he is seated that creaks and rustles each time he moves. Then he licks his lips as if to investigate if they’re still there, if they’re too dry or wet with blood. 

“I’m fine,” he says in the end, his voice flat and his face betraying nothing of what he’s thinking or feeling. It gives Dean nothing, which is what he gets for not answering the unasked question. Fair enough.

“I’ll be back,” Dean says – partially just a suggestion, though he manages to swallow the question mark.

Castiel nods, but that’s all the affirmation he offers.

When Dean goes to turn around and jog back into the woods, if only to help with the other two kids, Castiel catches his hand in his.

Castiel’s palm is warm, albeit a little sweaty. He sighs again when their skin brushes, and he looks up at Dean again – no looking away this time. There’s a short squeeze – Dean’s hand wraps around Castiel’s effortlessly, with none of the doubt or hesitation that he feels in every other part of him, and Castiel’s seems to vanish in the embrace.

“I’ve got to go,” Dean whispers, unsure whether he’s running from Cas, towards his father, or away from the inevitable conversation about what just happened. 

Castiel’s hand slips out of Dean’s the second Dean moves, resolute. He breaks into a run this time, disappearing in the woods within seconds. 

Even though he doesn’t have to carry Cas’ weight this time, there’s still a heavy something sitting right on top of his shoulders: the unbearable knowledge that this all might end, the fear of it.

Two taps on the hood of John’s truck and the car – with both the girl and the boy crumpled in the backseat, hurt but alive – drives away, waves of dust spiraling from beneath the tires and into the air. Dean wants to shield his eyes but he forces himself to watch, because once John’s car disappears, he’ll be left here alone with Castiel and what he now knows. That’s never pleasant.

There was really no point in Dean heading back into the woods – all he got was a pissed off John grumbling about how he didn’t need any help _now_. Dean didn’t dare ask what happened exactly, or how John took care of it; he barely managed to ‘yes, sir’ and ‘sorry, sir’ his way out of it, but at least it was done. Honestly, he’s glad that there were no questions asked regarding Castiel and why Dean seemed to care so much; he wouldn’t have known how to answer them.

He doesn’t know if there would be any point in answering them, now that Castiel knows.

The worst thing is that Cas has retreated back into the house to take care of the ugly cut on his collarbone; it means that Dean will have to go after him. The cabin still looks fairytale-like, Dean doesn’t think it could ever be anything else, and he’s worried that by going in, by having that dreaded conversation, he will make it vanish.

These conversations never go well. That’s why he doesn’t ever tell anyone. _Hey so, I’m a hunter. I kill all the things that go bump in the night._ That’s a joke no one ever understands, no one ever accepts, except for other hunters. 

You want to stay away from hunters – that’s the notion Dean’s always got from people.

So, climbing those few steps and walking back into the house is quite the emotionally exhausting trek. 

Dean finds Castiel in his bathroom, sitting on the edge of the bathtub, fixing up a bandage for the cut. He’s shirtless and Dean shouldn’t even focus on that, but it’s impossible not to with the memory of his tongue pressing against the skin right there still fresh in his mind.

They exchange a quick look, and Castiel’s face is so blank and unreadable it hurts.

“Need any help with that?” Dean asks, nodding towards the bandage, and his voice comes out a lot softer than he anticipated. 

Cas huffs out a breath. “I’m fine.”

 _And that’s it_ , Dean thinks bitterly. What was he thinking anyway? Even agreeing to stay here was stupid, not to mention everything it led to. What was he thinking, starting something with Cas? Society – hell, _he_ doesn’t work this way, it never goes unnoticed and every moment of happiness has to be paid for, so now he’s paying. And damn, it might have been worth it, but Dean can’t see that now: he sees rejection and that hurts as well.

“You probably want me gone,” he murmurs, in the vain hope that Castiel will stop him.

Castiel doesn’t say anything.

“Listen, I’m – ” Oh great, and now he’s rambling, needing to get… whatever this is off his chest, to fill the silence. “I’m sorry for dragging you into this. It was stupid, obviously, and I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry. The woods are safe now, though.”

“What was that thing anyway?” Castiel asks, suddenly. 

Dean is taken aback at first, considering not answering, but he swallows his fear in a gulp. “A Wendigo. It’s a –”

“I know what it is,” Castiel interrupts him, looking up. “I used to be into this sort of… thing, legends and myths and whatnot. I never thought that they were real, though.”

“Sorry,” Dean offers numbly.

“You really do have a problem with all the apologizing,” Castiel comments, finishing with the bandage and getting up from the bathtub’s edge, moving his arm slightly and wincing in pain. Dean knows it’s an ugly cut, that wound he’s got, and he wishes he could… wish it away. 

He’s embarrassed, trying to fold in on himself under Castiel’s intent stare. Words have escaped him.

“It figures,” Cas adds eventually, grabbing his torn shirt but not putting it on. His chest is blossoming in a flushed red, much like it did this morning. That was passion and pleasure, then, but it’s hard to guess what it is now – it could be embarrassment as well as anger. “Of course all the monsters are real.”

“It figures?”

“Well, something’s got to balance out the beauty.”

Of course: the flowers, the rose bushes. The way the sun lights up this house, the way Cas’ eyes light it up just the same, and so does his smile. The way they could just sit together and understand each other. _Something’s got to balance out the beauty_. Dean has never really thought of himself in relation to something beautiful (unless he was bragging or busy self-preserving), but he finds that his head doesn’t immediately reject this idea.

Still, it feels like he should leave and let Cas deal with this. He grew up with it; closets literally and figuratively hiding monsters, the dark an actual threat. But Cas never had to. Cas _shouldn’t_ have to.

“I should – I should go,” Dean squeezes out in the end. 

“Hey,” Cas says and takes a step forwards, and Dean’s eyes are still glued to his chest. A tiny drop of blood soaks through the bandage and stains it red, and Dean finally looks up, into those icy blues. “I have another secret.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Cas reaches out and gently places his palm over Dean’s shoulder, soothing, comforting. They look at each other and Dean knows he must look like a deer caught in headlights. Scared shitless. “I still like you, and I think it would be nice if you could stay here for a few days.”

There’s no point in trying to shoo away the heated blush that overtakes, colors his cheeks, so Dean doesn’t even try. He doesn’t try to shake off Cas’ hand, either. “You don’t even know me.”

“Exactly,” Castiel admits with a playful smile. It’s difficult to look at it without wanting to press a kiss into it, Dean realizes. “I’d like to change that.” 

It’s somehow a very unsettling thought, to think that he would never set foot in this cabin again, that he’d never see Castiel again. 

So he stays, for at least a little while.

He calls John about it, and then, he calls Sam about it as well.

THE END.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this little thing. c: 
> 
> As always, if you'd like to talk/want to follow my multifandom ass, you can find me on tumblr @ [deanghostchester](http://deanghostchester.tumblr.com).


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